


claim the tide

by coricomile



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Fingerfucking, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:45:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3165212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don’t discuss it. Ianto is too proud, and for all his bluster, Jack does have some form of tact. Ianto trusts him, for all the good that's done him, and the tender, easy line of that isn’t lost on Jack. He isn’t easy to trust, never has been. The fact that Ianto can do it anyway is all the more impressive for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	claim the tide

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the overload of new works. [Likeasugarcube](http://archiveofourown.org/users/likeasugarcube/pseuds/likeasugarcube) is out of the town for the week and I am BORED OUT OF MY SKULL.

They don’t discuss it. Ianto is too proud, and for all his bluster, Jack does have some form of tact. Ianto trusts him, for all the good that's done him, and the tender, easy line of that isn’t lost on Jack. He isn’t easy to trust, never has been. The fact that Ianto can do it anyway is all the more impressive for it. 

The day has been long, full of terror and pain and injuries they’ll all wear for longer than any of them would like to admit. A shallow cut runs from the edge of Ianto’s ear down to his jaw, tracing the shape of his sideburn. The blood is long gone, but Jack can still see it, overlaid like film exposed twice. He knows. 

Ianto clears away the files on Gwen’s desk, tucking them into a folder and staring down at them blankly. If Jack doesn’t stop him, he’ll take them down into the archives and file them away. Then he’ll stay down there half the night, finding busy work until he’s too exhausted to see. 

“It can wait until morning,” Jack says. Ianto blinks and looks up at him. “Put it down. We’re going to bed now.”

“I’d rather not,” Ianto says, but he sets the folder down. 

“Too bad,” Jack says bluntly. He ignores the way Ianto bristles, his shoulders stiffening and his mouth firming into a tight line. “You can pick here or your flat, but work is over for tonight.” 

“Is that an order, sir?” Ianto glowers at him, sullen and so, so human that it breaks Jack’s heart. 

“If it needs to be.” Jack gives him a moment to decide, but when Ianto stays stubbornly still, Jack chooses for him. He shrugs out of his coat and rests it over the back of Gwen’s chair. He sets the alarms and locks the doors, checking over the monitors one last time. Ianto hasn’t moved. “Come on.”

He climbs the stairs to his office, turning out the lights as he goes. He doesn’t look behind him to see if Ianto is following. He will or he won’t. Jack knows him well enough to not push. He climbs down into the bunker and pushes his braces off his shoulders. His body is already healed, all the wounds disappeared without even a scar, but he aches all over. 

Ianto shows up a few minutes later, stiff even as he lowers himself down. 

“Clothes off,” Jack says, unbuttoning his own shirt. Ianto stares at him for a long moment, face unreadable and cold, before carefully undoing his tie. 

There were moments between them that were light and free, shared touches and intimacies that left Jack feeling young and sweet. Kisses in the shower and hands linked over coffee mugs and slow mornings spent cataloging skin and scars. Then there was this. Ianto coiled so tightly and Jack his commanding officer, stealing away his body for his own good. 

Ianto undresses like he’s going to battle. His shirt hits the ground, then his trousers and pants. He stands tall even naked, head high and hands crossed behind his back like he’s at parade rest. Jack’s seen him cry and seen him kill and seen him when he thought his world had gone away. But this, this man barely two decades old with the world on his shoulders, is the worst thing of them all. 

Jack sits on the edge of his bed, trousers undone but still on. He finds the bottle lube under one of the pillows, discarded earlier that afternoon after a frantic tumble. It’s slick on the outside from overeager fingers, the lid half off. Jack runs his thumb around it and sighs. 

“How do you want me, sir?” Ianto asks. For all that he is- clever and quick and handsome and strong- he’s still a child. Jack’s lived his lifetime a half dozen times over, and will continue long after he’s gone. It’s something they both know, but neither acknowledge. 

“Drop the sir, Ianto,” Jack says tersely. “Come here. Hands around your ankles. Legs straight.”

Ianto obeys wordlessly. He stands in front of Jack, bending at the waist and grasping his ankles. He’s beautiful, all pale skin and corded muscles. Field work has been good for him, shaping the curves of his body into something fit and lean and dangerous. Jack strokes the angle of his back from nape to backside. 

“You can say stop,” Jack says. No matter what he says, no matter who he is to Ianto now, the choice has always been and will always be in Ianto’s hands. Jack knows what he needs, but he won’t force it on him. 

Ianto is silent. 

“Yes or no, Ianto,” Jack says, digging his fingers into the base of Ianto’s spine. 

“Yes,” Ianto says between grit teeth. 

Jack uncaps the lube and slicks his fingers, warming it against his skin. It smells like vanilla, sweet and flowery, and it’s almost ironic. Ianto tenses when Jack touches him but doesn’t move. He rubs his fingertip over Ianto’s hole, feeling it clench against him. 

The first time he had done this, slid his fingers into Ianto’s warmth, Ianto had shook and gasped and swore, beautiful in his inexperience and trust. He’d never been with a man, he’d said, voice even as he’d undressed. He’d rebuffed Jack’s attempts at distraction, bullying Jack’s hands between his legs and biting out smart remarks that made Jack laugh against his skin. 

Ianto is still just and hot and tight inside, body fighting against the intrusion of Jack’s finger. He sucks in a breath, chest expanding under Jack’s other hand. Jack catches his fingertip on the rim, circling it until Ianto shudders out his breath again. 

Jack fucks him slowly, pressing in until his knuckles brush the soft skin of Ianto’s ass and pulling out to the first knuckle. Ianto holds perfectly still, only the tightening of his hands around his ankles giving him away. Carefully, Jack slips a second finger into him. 

“You can speak,” Jack says. He curls his fingers, knuckles riding over the soft bump of nerves inside him.

“I’d-” Ianto stutters, voice creaking. “I’d rather not.”

“Suit yourself.” Jack rubs a soothing circle over Ianto’s back, feeling the ridge of his spine. Then, he lifts his hand and brings it down squarely on Ianto’s ass.

The sound rings out, sharp and loud. Ianto flinches, going tight around Jack’s fingers, but he doesn’t make a sound. Jack slaps him again, aiming for the same spot. The skin under his palm goes pink, blood surging up to the surface. 

Ianto’s cock hangs between his legs, half hard. Jack spits in his palm, the noise of it obscene, and wraps his hand around it, feeling him hardening. He jerks him off with firm, slow strokes, fingers pumping into him in time. 

When Ianto moans softly, Jack smacks his hand against the thick of his thigh. Ianto swears. He flinches under the flurry of blows across his ass and thighs, Jack's palm stinging and his fingers tingling. 

“Legs straight,” Jack reminds him gently. Ianto’s legs tremble, but he locks his knees and straightens his back. “There’s a boy.” He runs the flat of his hand over Ianto’s thigh. He slaps the top of it and Ianto gasps. Jack reaches for his cock again, twisting his fingers around the head until Ianto hisses. 

Slowly, Ianto unwinds under his hands, shoulders dropping and knees buckling every time Jack switches from jerking him off to slapping his overheated skin. When the side of Jack’s hand catches the edge of his balls, he lets out a hoarse sob. 

And that is what Jack was waiting for. 

Immediately, Ianto slumps, the tight clench of his hole around Jack’s fingers loosening. The ragged, ugly sound of his crying fills the bunker. Jack wants to hold him, wants to stop everything and pull him close and soothe him. But what he wants right now isn’t what matters. Ianto needs this, and Jack’s going to give it to him. 

“Close,” Ianto says when Jack tugs roughly at his cock. 

“So good,” Jack says. He pets the raw skin of Ianto’s thigh and frees his fingers. Ianto hiccups, his whole body twitching. “Stand up, there you go.” 

Slowly, Ianto straightens, shaking. He wipes at his eyes with the backs of his wrists, but his chest still heaves as he tries to calm himself. He’s so wonderful, and he doesn’t even know it. 

Jack pulls his cock out of his pants, biting back a groan as he slicks himself up. Without waiting to be told, Ianto crawls over his lap and sinks down onto him, all hot, tight heat. He whines when he settles down fully. Jack slaps his thigh, shoulder aching, and Ianto lifts himself up.

It’s hard to keep a rhythm with Ianto riding him, but he does what he can. Ianto jerks every time Jack hits him, his hips shifting and his eyes watering. When Jack kisses him, he tastes of salt. 

“Close,” Ianto moans, his hands flying to Jack’s shoulders. He goes ramrod straight, and it takes everything Jack has to not to flip him over and pound into him. Not about his needs, he tells himself, digging his nails into Ianto’s hips. Not right now. 

Slowly, Ianto raises up and sinks back down. The tears have gone, but his whole body shakes. Jack yanks him down, hips thrusting up into the hot, hot squeeze of his hole. Ianto’s nails sink into his arms, drawing blood. It doesn’t matter. The wounds will heal. They always do. 

Ianto kisses him, all biting teeth and distracted tongue. He tries to arch away when Jack reaches for his cock, but Jack holds him in place. Ianto’s cock twitches in his hand. He comes with a few short strokes, folding over and sinking his teeth into Jack’s shoulder. It hurts, a bone deep pain that makes Jack shout. 

Jack keeps jerking him, hand slicked with come, thrusting up as hard as he can. His orgasm is right there, curling in his belly and just out of reach. When Ianto tries to squirm away, oversensitive, Jack finally gives in and flips him over. 

Ianto hits the bed hard, his head bouncing off the mattress. Jack holds him down as he fucks into him, hard and vicious and selfish. He rakes his nails down Ianto’s chest, leaving raised red stripes over pale skin. When he lifts his hand to Ianto’s mouth, Ianto sucks on his fingers, biting down on them. 

Jack’s orgasm hits him like a punch to the gut. He clutches Ianto to him, buried so deep he can’t feel where they separate. Ianto’s still shaking. 

“That’s good,” Jack pants, pulling out slowly and collapsing onto the bed. He shifts and pulls the bottle of lubricant from under his stomach. It’s a lost cause. So are the sheets. He scoots away from the wet spot and closer to Ianto. 

“Thank you,” Ianto says. His eyes are red, skin blotchy. Jack wraps him up in his arms, pulling him close and breathing in the warm smell of him. 

“Any time,” he says. 

He holds him tightly until he falls asleep. In the morning, they’ll smile and kiss and redress each other with wandering hands. Ianto will file the report and they’ll go on. It’s what they do. It’s what Torchwood makes them do. And there will be another day when they lose someone, or they kill someone, and Jack will do this again, and Ianto will hate him until he doesn’t. 

Life goes on. Ianto reminds him of that daily, and Jack will hold onto what parts of it he can.


End file.
